I wrote before I could write. From an early age I would scribble madly
trying to fix words to the page. Now, I spend my days working at Calgary
Public Library where I witness the transformative power of words on
a daily basis. Evenings, I write, and am very grateful to poets Richard
Harrison and Patrick Lane for being generous guides on this poetic
journey. I am also blessed to be part of a writing group, the Stark
Raven Poets.
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© Rosemary Griebel
The
Lamp
He
is reading to his wife. How soft
the lick of flame in this room that smells of sod
and kerosene. Together they are a dark shadow
that bends towards the light.
She stares ahead, polished stone eyes.
He is reading about their son.
She leans in to listen but it is too dark
so she remembers how on the cot just there,
husband and wife would take turns
being field, being furrow. But that was long ago.
How does loss hasten so the night?
And now nothing but darkness.
The darkness, say, that's lurching
from her husband's mouth, his hand
weeping across the page, his voice
curling like lamp smoke.
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